Page 21 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
“You’re picking a color because it looks like what a witch would like?”
“Well, if you say it like that,” I say brightly, grinning up at him. “I kind of am! Sets the tone, you know?”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” he mutters, but I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Well, as long as it doesn't turn me into a frog, I'm fine with it.”
For a moment, I'm left speechless.
“Is that a joke I hear? Did you bang your head on your way here? Should I be concerned and call a doctor?”
He doesn’t respond, just grunts again and heads toward the tools he left on the counter. But as I pop the lid off the paint can and start pouring it into the tray, I swear I see him glance back at me with a smileon his lips that nearly shatters my soul right in half and leaves me dead with my head in a paint can. It's that gorgeous.
But it's gone too soon and I force myself not to make a big deal about it. Just because I'm not sure I'll survive a single second if he actually smiles at me like that again.
I concentrate on my task, remembering the videos I watched that morning about how to paint a wall. It shouldn’t be too hard. I swipe the roller across the wall in a wide arc, feeling instantly accomplished as the sage green covers the dingy beige. A few more strokes in, though, and things start to go awry. The paint gathers in uneven clumps, dripping down in ugly streaks. I press harder, thinking I can smooth it out, but now the roller skips, leaving bare patches that smear into the wet paint.
I stop, then stand in front of the wall, my hands on my hips as my heart sinks all the way to the soles of my feet. This isn't going the way it's supposed to go.
Of course it's not. What was I thinking? I've never done any real manual work before.
"So, you're going for the whole Goblin Puke look on your wall, I see."
Gerralt leans against the cabinets, arms braced on the new countertop he's about to install. How he plans to actually do such a feat is way over my pay grade.
Apparently, so is the act of painting. I turn to glare at him and all the orc does is look me up and down like I’ve been finger-painting those walls. To be fair, my work would make a kindergartener sad.
His t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his perpetual scowl is firmly in place, but it doesn’t have its usual bite. I try notto stare at the way his muscles stretch his sleeves or how his abs slim down to a V in the front of his tucked in t-shirt. I'm not saying I'm succeeding, just that I'm trying.
Who am I kidding? I'm looking at him like he's a cupcake covered in frosting and I'm about to lick him all over. It's been a while since I had sex, okay? And it's been even longer since I had good sex. I don't even remember what it feels like, honestly.
"You never painted a wall before, have you?"
"Nope." I grab the roller and dip it into the paint again, ignoring the way my heart does a little jump at the gravelly tone of his voice. "It's not supposed to be this hard. You just roll the paint on the wall, right?"
The roller drips paint as I point it at him, and a single drop lands on the floor. His eyebrow twitches, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning in frustration.
"Why don't you just leave this up to me, Princess?" he asks with that tone that says I'm messing up and there's nothing I can do that can make it right.
That tone makes my temper flare and all of a sudden, all I want in the world is to show him that I'm not the helpless city girl he thinks I am.
"Fat chance, Grumpy," I fire back, turning to face the biggest stretch of wall in the small room. "I'm not giving up that easily. This is my place, and I'm not going to just stand back and watch."
And that’s not even counting the fact that I don’t have the money to just stand back and watch. But this is none of Gerralt’s business.
Gerralt's green face remains scrunched up in a way that says he believes I have as much chance at becoming a competent painter as I have to sprout wings on my back and flutter around.
The next few minutes are best described as a drippy sage-green mess and a whole lot of sweat from a curvy brunette. So much I'm kinda scared I'm going to dissolve right there on the spot.
"Stop." Gerralt’s voice cuts through the room, sharp but not unkind. I glance over my shoulder to see him shaking his head, arms now hanging at his sides, the countertop almost installed. Jeez, that man is not only delicious-looking, but he’s efficient as heck, too.
"You're doing it all wrong."
"Well, I'm not quitting," I retort, planting one hand on my hip while still holding the roller in the other. "I’m pretty sure I'll figure it out somewhere along the way."
His sigh could fill the whole room.
"Trim first," he says, stalking toward me with the deliberate grace of someone who’s too big to make sudden movements without breaking things. He takes the roller from my hands by the tips of his fingers, like it's going to bite him.
Or just because it's so caked in paint, there's nowhere clean to hold it.
